


your hands (can heal; can bruise)

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She’s leaving in six days; he’s been waiting for her to bring it up again, although he still hasn’t found the right collection of words to answer her with.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hands (can heal; can bruise)

Her hand is flat on the table.

Outside, it's raining. Inside, her fingers flex slightly, her knuckles rising up several millimeters before settling back on the stained wood. His eyes skim the tendons just below her skin, the hollow of her wrist and the subtle strength in her forearm. He passes a tired hand across his face, and when he looks back up she's staring at him expectantly.

She's leaving in six days; he's been waiting for her to bring it up again, although he still hasn't found the right collection of words to answer her with.

“Sherlock,” she says. Her voice flirts with impatience, but there's a low wave of concern in the way she draws her hand back into her body, the way she leans in against the edge of the table, her eyes meeting his squarely.

“That's my name,” he says. He smiles at her, tries to put her at ease. He doubts he has much luck with it—she's always shown a remarkable ability to see right through him—but he thinks she might appreciate the attempt. Or perhaps it will annoy her. Joan Watson can occasionally be difficult to read.

“Tell me you aren't suggesting we kidnap him,” she says. He's more interested in her eyes than her words, though—he wonders, sometimes, how far she'd follow him if she believed it would do some good.

“Of course not,” he says. “Just make it appear as if we had. I'm sure Gregson will agree to it, although perhaps you ought to call him; he tends to capitulate more often to you.”

“Probably because you never explain anything,” she says, her lips softening with amusement. Her hand drops into the pocket of her sweater, and when she pulls it out her fingers are cradling her phone. Gregson is her third speed dial—the first is her voicemail, and Sherlock himself is the second. At one point positions two and three were occupied by the parents she never called and one of her close friends, but they've been pushed farther back. Sherlock is just not entirely certain of what that represents in the wider scheme of things. It should be easier to decipher, but then he has a deplorable tendency of being too close to the situation when it comes to his Watson.

He listens to the phone call with half an ear, his mind mulling over the case and listening to the sound of rain and his eyes tracing the way her hair falls across her neck, the dark strands curling together as they slide across her collarbone.

“Not kidnapping, precisely,” he hears her say, and looks up in time to see her roll her eyes, biting back a smile.

Six days, he thinks. He should be better prepared for this. Still, this is hardly the time—they have a fake kidnapping to stage, and a murderer to catch. He leans across the table to snag her wrist but pauses, his hand hovering above the face of her watch. He flicks his eyes up to meet hers, but she's already stretching her hand out to meet his, offering up the time without his needing to ask. His fingers settle on her skin as he turns her wrist until he can read the time clearly. She's still speaking on the phone, and barely seems to notice the pressure of his fingertips.

He lets her go and pushes himself to his feet, feeling oddly bereft at the loss. He grabs his coat, and then hers as well, and she hangs up just in time for him to hold it up for her. Her hair spills across the back of her coat, brushing across his hands.

“Gregson agreed,” she says, looking at him from the corner of her eyes.

“Of course he did,” Sherlock says. “People always end up agreeing with me in the end.”

She pauses, one hand on the hallway wall, and looks back at him.

“Do they?” she asks.

And he thinks about the way she fits into his life, and the way he fits into her speed dial, and he thinks about the time that's always running out. He reaches his hand out to her, palm up.

“You could stay,” he says. The words feel unplanned and vulnerable on his tongue. “You could find out.”

Her eyes skim over the features of his face, and he's uncertain what she's looking for, but after a moment her hand settles on his.

“Come on,” she says. Her fingers curl around his, and she turns away, pulling him towards the door. “Gregson will be waiting for us.”

She squeezes his hand, once, and then lets go, pulling her keys out of her pocket. Sherlock follows.

_Finis_


End file.
